Ettercap
by Parsley the Lion
Summary: A struggling playwright. An old lady with a secret. And Sarah. Connected by wishes and a small, red book. What tangled webs does the Goblin King weave and to what ends? Could a midnight visitation and a trip to the theatre reveal all? Reverse Illustration


Hello and welcome to my first ever piece of Labyrinth fanfiction. Technically I should be working on my ongoing HP story (_Love in Antiquity_), but ever since I set eyes upon Pika-la-Cinique's Reverse Illustration challenge, I've been unable to get this idea out of my head.

Don't worry about the lack of canon characters in this first chapter, I was going to put some of them in at the end, but then I realised how much I'd written and have decided to leave that until next time. I hope that my characters will keep you occupied and amused until then.

In case you're wondering about the title, it's a Scottish word for spider.

Disclaimer: I don't own Labyrinth, but I sure do wish I owned Jareth (right now)…lol.

…

Ettercap

Chapter 1: These Webs We Weave

…

"Gods damn it," Eric Lloyd sighed exasperatedly as he crumpled the sheet of paper he had been working on; throwing it savagely to the floor where it joined its fellows, adding to the general clutter and disarray surrounding him. Removing his glasses, he winced and rubbed his temples exhaustedly before replacing then on the bridge of his rather prominent nose. The forty-something playwright took out a fresh sheet of lined paper and began to write again. His heavily chewed biro scrabbled and scratched across the paper as he worked.

"Bugger," he muttered to himself just ten minutes later, "This is never going to work. Damn, damn, damn!" Again, he scrunched the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. It hit a teetering stack of papers and, sucking in a deep breath, he watched in horror as the entire thing collapsed, setting off a chain reaction. Piles of books and paperwork came crashing down around his ears as he sat in his green, leather chair, cursing quietly as each new _thud_ and _crash_ added to his already massive headache. Then he heard it, that ruddy _banging_ on the floor again as his downstairs neighbour registered her displeasure at the kerfuffle he had caused. He stomped his foot on the floor a few times for good measure, "Yeah, yeah, you old bat, I know, I bloody know…"

With a weighty sigh he decided that it was time to call it a night. He reached over and switched off his desk lamp, knocking over yet another stack of books in the process. "Crap, bugger, damn it all to hell!" He screamed, kicking over the overflowing wastebasket, which proceeded to spill its contents on the floor and hit the wall with a loud clang, scratching the skirting slightly. And so, the banging from Mrs. Newell in number 3 began again. "Yeah, yeah, yeah…"

"Ugh! I wish I could find some inspiration right now!" he groaned

With that, he turned out the main light and headed for bed, having had the worst day – nay, the worst month – in his entire life. Things were not going well for poor Eric. However, fortunes are subject to change, as his were about to, and all because of one little wish…

…

"Man, Rick, what happened in here? It looks like an earthquake hit and then had a party with a couple of tornadoes and a hurricane," joked Joel Effert, as he picked his way across his friend's office like a cautious mountain goat.

"Something like that," lamented Eric, nervously running his fingers through salt-and-pepper hair. He was bent over, sifting though a particularly precarious pile of documents.

"Need any help, mate?" the taller man asked, picking up books and files as he went.

"Thanks, that'd be great."

"So, long night then?" teased Joel.

"Yeah, pretty much," he continued to chuck miscellaneous papers into the rubbish sacks and files at hi feet, "Got pissed off at my office for not being able to write jack shit that made any sense. Then the stupid old bag downstairs started with her pounding on the ceiling again and that just made it worse."

Shelving the books as he talked, "Well, kicking the shite out of your bin," he paused for affect, holding up the offending object, "ain't gonna help you get the work done, as much fun as it is."

"Don't I know it…"

The clean-up operation continued for some hours as the guys steadily bantered through the detritus of books, files, desiccated pot plants and old dishes. When they were almost done, they decided to take a well-deserved break and a bite of lunch.

"So, what exactly brought you to my humble abode, this fine morning," Eric glanced at his worn wristwatch, "Yup, still morning."

"Well, you know me, always anticipating the needs of good friends," Joel smiled wickedly. It was a smile known to melt hearts, both male and female, but Eric had been friends with this particular rogue much too long to fall for any snappy, one-liners.

"You're hear about the play, aren't you," he sighed, "Patricia sent you to do her dirty work again, right?" It was rhetorical question really, he already knew what the answer would be even before Joel said it.

"Well… yeah, I suppose so…"

"I knew it, I just knew it," he grimaced into his coffee, "bloody brilliant, just fan-fucking-tastic… That's all I need, Pat breathing down my neck again. You are her bitch, you know that, pal?"

"I am not, don't be ridiculous," Eric gave him a withering look that quelled all further protests, "Well, perhaps just a little…"

All too soon it was time to take out the steadily mounting pile of trash. Lugging the overflowing bags down the stairs was a daunting, but not insurmountable task. Unfortunately, they had to pass number 3, or the dragon's nest, as they liked to call it. Mrs. Newell was a busybody of the highest order – all blue-rinse perm, net curtains and lace doileys. They were almost to the stairs when they heard the door creak ominously. Sharing a look of frustration, they stopped and turned around, to be greeted by a most unwelcome sight.

"Coo-ee, boys," she greeted imperiously, a small, yappy dog wearing a pink bow under one cardigan-clad arm, "If you're headed towards the recycling centre, perhaps you could do me a little favour, especially after all that nonsense last night, having a party were you? Hmm, quite upset my poor Harold here." She blustered, shaking the dog – which yelped – exactly who Harold was.

"Yes, ma'am," said Joel, giving a cheeky grin and a quick salute.

"What would you like us to do, Mrs. Newell?" sighed Eric, thoroughly fed up with his nosy neighbour and her airs.

"Quite," she sniffed, "Perhaps you would like to take a box of old books and papers that I have no further use for and dispose of them for me. I would do it myself, but poor Harry was just so upset by all the ruckus last night and those stairs are getting too much for me nowadays and…"

"Yes, yes, we'll do it," interrupted Eric impatiently, "Now, where are they?"

"Humph," she replied, "Just through here."

Entering the dragon's den was not high up on either of their to-do-lists for this century. They'd been in it before to do various odd jobs for the ageing beauty queen, but no amount of visits ever quite prepared you for the sight of apartment number 3. It wasn't just the abundance of lace and ruffles; nor was it the effusion of floral adornments; nor was it even the sheer number of china dogs and other assorted knickknacks. No, it was all these and much, much more. Most frightening of these, perhaps, were the shelves-upon-shelves of creepy porcelain dolls; one in particular, dressed in a white and silver confection, caught Eric's eye. He went to take a closer look as he waited for Joel and Mrs. Newell to reappear from the back bedroom, a portion of her small flat, which he was not privy to. According to Joel, with his good looks and charm, it was just more of the same, only frillier.

"Admiring my collection I see," sniffed the old woman, now _sans_ small dog, "That one's called Sarah, she was a gift from a dear old friend of mine."

"Very nice…"

"Would you buys like to stay for a cup of tea and a biscuit? I'm sure from all that scraping and scuffling going on upstairs that you must have been working hard."

"Thanks for the offer, but we'd best press on," said Eric quickly.

"Maybe another time," interjected Joel before she could protest, "See you later!"

…

"What'd ya go and have to say that for, idiot," said Eric, "She'll hold you to that 'maybe another time'. That's practically a date to her you know."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"So, what'd she give you anyhow?"

"Box of old books and shit, like she said," answered Joel irritably, having just been in the dragon's most inner sanctum, near her knickers and old lady things. He had not appreciated her calling it a boudoir. He shuddered slightly at the memory, but covered it by setting the box down next to the bins and helping Eric to dump all the paper from his office into the recycling. Once that was done, they sat down on the bottom steps of the fire escape to have a look through the mysterious box they had been gifted by Mrs. Newell.

"What've we got here?" mumbled Joel, who had the box in his lap, "_A Beginner's Guide to Etiquette _by Ivana Strump, a book of poems – the sappy kind – and some old electrical bills. Exciting."

"You think that first one was a hint?" Eric answered, leafing through a pile of similarly disinteresting letters.

"Oh, here's a couple of romance novels, I should've guessed she'd be into shirt rippers, want to hear an extract?"

"No, you're alright," groaned Eric, knowing full well that Joel would do it anyway.

"…_William cupped her heaving bosom with his large, rough, manly hands and leaned down to capture her lips with bruising passion. She moaned in ecstasy as he ran a finger up her soft, creamy thigh under her heavy skirts. 'Oh William, take me now…' she wailed breathlessly as he slid her the floor, hi... _and there I shall leave the rest up to your imagination."

"I really don't that that left much to the imagination at all," he grimaced, "I'll never be able to look her in the eye again."

"Heh-heh, know what you mean mate,"

"Hrm, this looks interesting… _The Labyrinth_."

"Never heard of it, mate," Joel said, peering over Eric's shoulder at the small, red leather book with its title and a picture of a maze embossed in gold on the cover. It was rather worn with age, but looked both well loved and well cared for.

"Do you suppose it's about that whole thing in Greek mythology about the Minotaur?" added the brunette reflectively.

"Dunno, only one way to find out I suppose," he said, opening the yellowing pages at the front, upon which was written in faded ink: _To my precious thing, Jessica._

"Never knew that battleaxe was called Jessica, it seems almost too normal, somehow."

"Yeah," mumbled Eric, too engrossed in the story as he randomly flipped through it to really listen to his friend at all. This distraction and the spark in his eyes did not go unnoticed, however.

"I'll just go get rid of this stuff and go tell Pat that you've found your inspiration then, shall I?"

"Mmhmm."


End file.
